


A Sort-of Fairy Tale

by Miladygrey



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie, not meant to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miladygrey/pseuds/Miladygrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The problem with fairy tales is that they end."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sort-of Fairy Tale

Once the delirious joy of the Battle of Beruna’s Ford had died down (and she and Caspian and Peter and Aslan had saved several idiot Telmarine children from wading into the ford and trying to call the river god back), the tedious details of a shift in government had to be dealt with. Caspian was willing, and not at all stupid, having learned from his uncle and his uncle’s more friendly advisors, but he was still awkward and untried.

“...the Tisroc, may he live forever, welcomes the ascension of a new ruler to the throne of our northern neighbor. He also hopes that the magnanimity of the late Protector Miraz will be evident in the policies of the young Prince, especially as regards the timber trade, the mines, and the breeding of horses...”

Susan remembers Bree and Hwin and Cor and Aravis. She remembers barely-visible spur scars on Bree’s grey hide, and Hwin’s dancing nervousness during a Narnia-Calormen-Archenland parley at Anvard. Queen Susan the Gentle is _not_ in evidence when she speaks. “The breeding and selling of horses to the markets and sulky-races of Calormen will no longer be tolerated.”

The Tarkaan-diplomat lifts an oiled eyebrow at her, then directs his attention back to Caspian. “The soft hearts of women for sad-eyed dumb beasts can never comprehend the realities of trade.”

“On the contrary,” says Caspian, “I am in agreement with Queen Susan. My uncle failed to understand the nature of the beasts...the creatures he so blithely caught and sold for profit. No animal of Narnia, Talking or voiceless, will be sold without consent—if not its own, then with a certificate or sworn statement proving that it is a dumb beast.”

She smiles at him before she can stop herself, feels foolish for doing so, then even more foolish (and secretly delighted) when he smiles back.

 

“Su, this is a bad idea—“ Peter begins the minute she walks into the Council room. She sweeps past him, only to be brought up short by Edmund wearing a near-copy of Peter’s serious expression.

“He’s right, Su. This can’t go any further.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

“Whenever you say that, you know exactly what he means,” says Lucy from a window seat. “And he means Caspian. We all do.”

“What about him?” If she keeps her chin up, they will not see her face.

“The Calormene ambassador is convinced that you’re betrothed,” Peter says flatly. “So is most of the court. There’s a _ballad_ , Susan, or at least half of one.”

“A _what?_ ”

“Never mind. Su, you’re with him half the day and at most of the evening meetings and entertainments. People are talking.”

She refuses to give them the satisfaction of any kind of response. Of course, she can’t lie and tell them she knows what she’s doing, either. “If any of the court are bothered by our friendship, they can speak to us about it. And I couldn’t give a fig what any Calormene thinks.”

“We don’t have to, Susan,” Edmund says to her retreating back. “Caspian does.”

 

When Aslan appears in the courtyard beneath her window, she gathers up her courage and a dressing gown and goes down to him.

“There is no—I can’t. Can I?” _Ask and you shall receive_ is implicit in almost all her encounters with Aslan, and she knows that even if it’s as impossible as she knows in her heart, he will at least explain why.

“No.” But his golden eyes are gentle. He knows all about sacrificing love.

“I thought not. I suppose every history must have its Virgin Queen.”

He makes a husky coughing sound that might be a chuckle. “Are you so willing to put your trust in Princes, dear one? The last was Rabadash, you may recall.”

She laughs and slides one hand into his mane. “They are very different! As you well know, or you would not have set him on the throne. Caspian is—“ Is a great many things, things she remembers hazily from her time as an adult Queen and now fumbles to put a name to. “He _looks_ at me—that’s not what I mean, but—“

“He sees you.” Aslan’s voice is basso-deep, and the vibration of it shivers up through his mane along the bones of her hand. “You are a tangle of things to him, a glorious Queen and a noble lady fair and brave, and you remember what it is to be seen so, in a way your brothers and sister do not.”

It’s true, and she’s not surprised that Aslan knows it. During their reign, Peter was too busy being King Peter the Magnificent to consider marriage, Edmund was his brother’s steadfast support (much like now), and Lucy had been having far too much fun. It was Susan, beautiful and gentle, who was courted by Princes from Calormen and Terebinthia and Archenland...well, not so much Archenland, Cor and Corin were more playful cousins. They called out her name, wrote poetry in her honor, and looked away when she met their eyes. She liked it, and saw no reason not to. She doesn’t now.

“It is not wrong to wish for love, nor to look for it. Nor is it wrong to wish to nurture it, when that first spark appears. But dear one, you know, more than any of your siblings, that this is not your world. You would be happy for a little while, then you would wither from loneliness and loss.”

“And him?” She had watched her mother fade, sometimes visibly from day to day, since her father left for the army. The thought of Caspian’s _aliveness_ blunted by grief and worry made her heart hurt.

“No one knows any story but their own.”

“I wish—“ She cannot finish. She leans into him and buries her face in his mane.

“Many waters cannot quench love, dear one. Not all the waters between all the worlds.”

It’s true. Though she cries out her tears into his golden mane, her helpless, breathless hope of love remains.

 

She knows they must leave soon. No treaties will be signed with a young, untried King Caspian while the four monarchs of legend still linger. Especially not with the story of Peter and Miraz’s duel growing day by day. If it’s not Glenstorm declaiming it to the latest delegation of Centaurs, it’s Trumpkin exaggerating for the benefit of skeptical Dwarves.

“And so I walked out into the courtyard, feeling that I’d finally convinced someone of the truth of the matter—and there was Reepicheep, re-enacting the entire duel for some Talking Beasts!”

Caspian laughs briefly, his dark eyes dancing even after he manages to tamp the laughter down to a polite level. “I can picture that. It’s quite terrifying, but I can picture it. Signor Mouse is an ally like no other.”

“I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“I doubt there are any quite like him. Did you know no Mice during your reign?”

“There were no Talking Mice then.”

He goes quiet, letting the music and chatter of the ball fill the abrupt gap in conversation. “I...did not know that.”

“Aslan has said that he gave them the gift of speech after the White Witch was defeated. They gnawed away the ropes that bound him to the Stone Table, you see.” She does not wait for the question. “They did. I was there.”

He laughs again, more abashed. “I do not doubt you. It is...a fairy tale come to life. But then, this last month has been more of the same. Even now.”

She knows he is looking at her, looking at the blue and white dress that bares her shoulders and sets off the tumble of her dark hair. She pretends not to notice, watching Lucy dance a merry country reel with a mixed group of Dwarves and Fauns. “The problem with fairy tales is that they end.”

“With all wrongs righted, and peace restored. At least, the fairy tales Doctor Cornelius let me read, in-between translations and sums. How do they end in your world?”

Now she _cannot_ look at him. “The prince kisses the princess, or he saves her. Sometimes both. And the spell is broken, and they live...they live happily ever after.”

Another pause, and all the country dances in Narnia cannot fill the silence. When he speaks again, he’s so close that she can smell the spiced wine from the dinner’s toasts. “If I kissed you, Susan, do you think that we would live happily ever after?”

It takes all her strength not to turn to him, to try and rewrite both their stories. Fortunately, the country dance finishes and Lucy comes running up flushed with laughter, pulling Caspian away into the next formation and leaving Susan alone in the shadows with ghosts of fairy tales.


End file.
